


Tachwover's Gallery

by Apollonion



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New York City, Original Character(s), POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 11:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24969064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apollonion/pseuds/Apollonion
Summary: Hanzo Shimada is an artist in New York who can't seem to make his biggest break, and is constantly battling against Gabriel Reyes for a spot in the greatest gallery in Manhattan.Things began to change when Hanzo meets an up and coming artist named Jesse McCree and begins to discover what might just be holding him back.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	1. To Be Removed

"Mr. Shimada…." Harvey extended a hand towards the artist, and they met each other with equal parts of different resolve. Shimada's mind was combed with worry while inside of Harvey, the gallery director, was a firm and solid steel trap. Harvey, or Mr.Leopold as he had preference for, had called Shimada nearly an hour prior to this meeting.

"Leopold." Shimada spat out with just a little bit of reluctance. 

Leopold owned the building and the rights to Tachwover, one of the largest high end galleries of art in the Manhattan area: which makes it one of the greatest galleries in the world. The Tachwover itself was five stories of amazing fantasy and color beyond belief, there were metal statues, marble pictures, moving pieces, pure art, raw art, things that leered at the pinnacle of art and spat down upon that as it clawed it's way beyond that. The price tag on even the air in this strange building was outrageous. 

"Walk with me if you would." Leopold took his thin black leather shoes and turned them inwards towards the gallery. Shimada crept in shortly after him.

It was late and there was the soft spray of the consuming rain outside, the darkness outside on a short 7'o clock afternoon was growing more common with the coming fall. The inside of Tachwover was brightly lit and the pure white walls only increased exposure, in some way making the commoner viewer feel exposed in public was a largely common theme for it, and the effect was doubly so now on Shimada.

"Hanzo, when you think of the Tachwover what do you see?" Leopold said as they made their collective way towards the third floor, the same floor of one of Hanzo's works. 

"Well… in my opinion, I see a completed vision, a form of artistry by display of art." The thick soles of his dress shoes made quiet sounds on the polished white tiles. "It's strange… coming here almost makes me feel washed, as if I am now cleaner." 

"Interesting…" Leopold said softly and with a inquisitive tone. "My vision for each floor is to simply have the art displayed in a manner that suits art itself. Thus fairly…." Leopold's hand caught the shiny metal railing of the stairs on their ascent. ".... That is why the walls are always pure white, and the floors polished and dusted, all to increase the exposure of the art. To create… a special and unique viewing of every piece, and collectively create an overwhelming immersion" Leopold stopped among the stairs and turned to Hanzo. " A true experience of a lifetime and of art, that is what we are doing here Mr. Shimada!" The short man's hazel eyes glowed with pride over his statement and the exaggeration of grandeur that was 'Tachwover'. 

The two made their way up onto the third floor and shuttling forward towards a piece of Hanzo's that he had titled "The Lost Child". Large and very detailed focused, the great image was of a boy who was lost in the forest made of blue and on his journey towards a mysterious and distant orange hue with a white center. There was a great level of detail to the painting especially given that the piece of work was almost entirely several hues of blue variety, which created a devastating effect of coldness and distance. Overwhelmingly expensive, incredibly detailed, and boasting all the call signs of an incredible masterpiece, if it were not missing one single thing it could have been truly priceless. 

"Mr. Shimada-" Leopold began but Hanzo cut his words swiftly.

"Leopold." He said peering at the director who was gazing into the painting. "I'll be taking this back with me then?" 

Leopold sighed. "Unfortunately we cannot carry this piece with us anymore…. " His words dragged with a heaviness, he shook the round glasses from his face and wiped this down with a pocket handkerchief. "I would procure this myself but to buy more art now… well frankly the wife would be outraged." 

"I understand…." Hanzo stared now into the 'Lost Child' as if taken to a dream, and he sighed heavily. "Can I ask who would be in this section now?"

"Mr. Reyes, I'm sure you're familiar…" the rest of what Leopold was saying was moot to Hanzo now, for Hanzo despised Reyes.

Gabriel Reyes, an artist whose work began in California and slowly crept across the country, was a disease in Hanzo's eyes. His work was fast, it was abrasive, destructive, and loose, and it was everything Hanzo hated in the world of art. Recently Reyes' work started appearing in Tachwover, simultaneously Hanzo had just begun to garner the sacred spaces himself, and this began a feud between the two of them. It wasn't only the Tachwover, Hanzo would have been more understanding if it was just there, but it was in every gallery that Hanzo had a stake in as well: the problem was infuriating and cancerous to Hanzo. How could Hanzo's talent become so undone by such a messy and destructive work like that of Gabriel Reyes.

Hanzo was in a taxi, one of the larger van ones to transport 'The Lose Child', he planned on taking it to one of his other galleries: and while Takeover was an amazing Institute Hanzo could not put all of his work there. He had several galleries throughout New York that he frequented and went as far as Upstate to Buffalo. Thankfully 'Brosse' was also in Manhattan otherwise the rain would increase its downfall and made handling features very difficult, still Hanzo was a good deal wet when he came into 'Brosse'. 

"Mr. Shimada! Pleasure, pleasure." He was greeted by Marie Moreau, a forgien French woman, the owner of 'Brosse'. 

Marie had a strange way of doing business, and more transparently was a strange woman herself, and her style was a lot warmer compared to Leopold and Tachwover.

"Madam Moreau." Shimada nodded at the woman, who was eagerly approaching. 

"What a surprise… Oh and is this for me?" The short petite light skinned woman embraced the artist.

"Actually-" Hanzo began.

"Oh no kisses, Shimada, kisses." Moreau grabbed Hanzo by the shoulders and together brushed against each other's cheeks. It was a ritual Hanzo was not entirely fond of, being that it was a fairly germy event, however these were Moreau's customs so he often complied. 

"-Actually… this is coming from the Tachwover, it's 'The Lost Child'." Hanzo explained. "One of Reyes' pieces bested my own again, so before I took it home I was wondering you might want it on display." 

"Fondly I remember the child, it is an exquisite piece." Marie hummed in thought, but it didn't take much deliberation before she concluded her answer; and once Marie decided on something it was as if done "Of course! Take it and follow me, also do not mind that Reyes." The two of them made way through the exhibit. "You two have gone back and forth for months, and surely you'll replace him and he will replace yours." Marie made a gesture with her hands as if to state that this was the simple nature of things: something between a shrug of the wrist, or the tossing of fingers. "I would bet that he is cursing your name now, just as you do his."

'Brosse' was an interesting experience, albeit not as refined as Tachwover. The floor was made of polished hardwood, and there were sections of different walls: brown, brick, black, white, or wood. There were several different areas of Brosse, each section was noted by the change of wall patterns. The building was a short cramped three floors and it was also only a small piece of a larger building, however the Brosse's entrance was in the rear of the building which created the feeling of being a wholly different building. 

Perhaps the best thing about Brosse was Marie Moreau herself. She had an incredible taste in art, and composed wonderful displays, over all she had quite the special taste for all things in life. Oftenly she was easily noticed in strange clothes, not your typical high end designer things, opting for unusual clothes and handmade accessories her appearance landed between bohemian, retro, and post-modern. In the art world of New York the name Marie Moreau was the equivalent of Tropicana orange juice, because everyone knew it, which oftenly turned out in her favor.

Then they ascended the stairs and entered one of the more open areas, standing in front of a blank wall Marie gestured towards it.

"There! it'll do here, your papers?" She extended her hand to him. The placement was on the outside out a white walled cube, and it faced the center of the room. Along every four corners of the walls there were different sections, but Hanzo was to be the face of this tiny white walled corner; not the Tachwover, but he would settle.

Shimada reached in his button down jacket and handed over his authentication papers, from the appraiser and from himself, although he would maintain the original copies Brosse could now sell his work. Then he removed 'The Lost Child" from its brown wrapping paper, sprinkled with water droplets, and hung it softly on the wall mount. They both began to admire it.

A moment of silence.

The soft cringle of paperwork.

"A thirteen thousand dollar notary uh? You've made quite a worthy piece Shimada." Marie said softly. "And with my fifty percent commission… twenty six thousand dollars we do then?" She looked at the artist. 

"Make it twenty five and you can keep my difference." Shimada spoke softly into the picture.

"I knew we were friends, but let us flip those numbers around can we?" Maria put the papers back together and held them softly. "I will do forty percent commission on twenty five thousand, that'll give you your due thirteen." Maria began to move away, she had a strong forward attitude and was already on to her next big thing. 

The motion caused Hanzo to turn and look at her, which prompted him to spy a piece of work that was destined to grind his world apart as if he were just a single grain of salt. It took his breath from him, it moved him in a way that he was unsure he could be moved before, it made him feel a way he could barely describe to himself. 

"Marie?!" Hanzo called out… but his eyes never left the art.

"Uh?" Marie stopped mid stride and turned around. "Oh do you like?" She came back slowly. "It's new! Different… much different, but it belongs." 

The two of them stared at it. 

A moment.

The soft sweep of broom.

The removal of dust.

The scent of heavy cleaners. 

"Ahh! The artist!" Marie exclaimed. "Come meet the Shimada." She gestured the man over to the gathering. 

The man appeared only a handful of years younger than Hanzo but definitely taller by a head. His body had a deal more bulk and muscle, but a fair lean cut to it, definitely something Hanzo assumed a guy like this would be proud of. The most striking feature of the man before him was how he carried himself, he was in a raggedy white tee shirt and washed out jeans but it didn't stop him from approaching them as if he owned something beyond value. His walk relaxed but urgent, his complexion clear but with utter depth, even his smell was unique despite having the use of chemicals around him.

"Good… McCree, Shimada. Shimada, McCree." Marie made the exchange but little did she know in the way of what she was about to do, or what she had set in motion; because here there was only one thing that mattered now and that was art.

The two exchanged a quick glance at each other and saw the artist in each other, so it was easy for them to begin.

"Why did you do this?" Hanzo said.

"Why? Do you like it?" McCree replied.

"It's…" Hanzo paused to find the word."special."

"Alotta things special around here." 

"Not like this."

The piece of work was titled "Strength". It was a statue about seven feet tall, made of copper tubing and plating, and must have weighed the weight of two men mounted in that cement block. There was canvas stretched around some of the tubings, some of it was completely filling the hole and some peeled off the frame; on top of the canvas there was a strange fantastic fleshy color, which incorporated the view as if looking inside someone as they fell apart. It was a grim piece and with a morbid title, it was a thing Hanzo wished he could unsee and still he could not look away. 

The piece said things to Hanzo that he found difficult to explain to himself, the strange solidarity, the loneliness, the anger. The vision of the wrapping statue instantly brought to him a story. 

A man walks down a street, a man who works hard, works so hard and no one can see it. He pushes himself relentlessly, strives to support the world upon him, but now there he is. The man from the story, the Statue, "Strength", falling apart: weak, and yet somehow stronger for it. 

"It's beyond words, and I'm my opinion we should be charging more." Marie stated to McCree. "I cannot believe how unique this is… it's is the Brosse's equivalent of the statue of David" Marie had a way of describing things with her northern French accent that made everything sound dramatically grand. 

"Well I'm flattered but that's not something I'll be doing anytime soon." McCree said his southern drawl was noticeably thick, but he put his hand into his thick beard and gripped it with thoughtfulness. "Might take it up by a few hundred if it's really getting that attention, but for the most part I think it's fine as it is." 

"Something like this should be in Tachwover." Hanzo whispered. 

"I'll be dead before I put any of my work there." McCree spat sharply, and let the words fall where they might. "That place ain't nothing for art if you ask me." 

Hanzo's heart crawled into his throat, he had been down this road before and he knew where this conversation was going to land. 

"Oh but the Shimada has just come from Tachwover." Marie said softly. "You should see his work, I thought Shimada's contrast by your 'Strength' would elevate this whole floor!" Marie was excited about the viewing, excited to expose Hanzo's work, but Hanzo could only sense impending dissatisfaction and a small portion of doom. 

The group turned around and then they were face to face with "The Lost Child", a Tachwover reject. Going back to it's overwhelming blue from "Strength"'s fleshy grit, was like going from a burning room and then diving into the deepest sea, and then they looked at it even more.

"Yeah." McCree cracked. "This looks pretty much like what ya expect from Tachwover." He finished.

Hanzo couldn't tell if this was an insult, or a compliment, or both, but either way his curiosity was fired. He stepped forward and confronted the charismatic janitor. 

"What do you mean? If you don't mind my asking?" The words came out slowly, and with heavy deliberation. When investigating an artist's work these words were the very guillotine, a death sentence. 

"Well…" McCree approached Hanzo, not physically but verbally, and Marie slowly cut herself out of the picture: she knew exactly what was about to happen. "... It's an all n' all masterpiece of technique, but it's missing a touch. Something about it just don't sit right… almost makes it look like all the blue is just to enforce n' emotion the artist just couldn't express." The janitor glared into the 'Lost Child' and sighed. "But that's the work I expect from Tachwover."

Hanzo's blood was boiling but his face was calm and compliant, and he chose his next words carefully. 

"And… where do you hang your own?" Hanzo asked dangerously.

"Places a person like you I'd reckon wouldn't attend." McCree replied with some growing tension on his voice. 

Hanzo caught the words in his throat 'Try me', and repressed them with a blatant and aggressive blink. Then silence and then the air between them thickened.

"Boys, be cordial." Marie scolded them both, which helped to disperse some of that blooming tension. "You are both va-lid ar-tists in my opinion, and there is plenty space to share in Brosse." There was a certain sway to Marie Moreau that could pacify a hurricane, whether it was her soft French accent or the way she used her hands when she talked, no one could tell, but everyone listened.

"Now I am going to leave and if I find a body on the floor I am going to make Jesse work overtime." Marie pat the shoulders of the two artists and then drifted quickly into whatever project she was about to disrupt.

"My work's mostly in Queens." McCree said factly and after a slight silence. " Actually now that I think of it this is my first work in Manhattan… tryna get in here for so long I ended up becoming the custodian!" McCree's voice swelled and with the punchline he chuckled youthfully at his own joke; Hanzo nearly cracked a smile, nearly. "But over in Queens I work with Horus's Cradle-"

"You've got space in The Cradle!" Hanso cut in with shock and admiration. "That's incredible, I could never put any of my work there." Horus's Cradle, or The Eye as many slang called it, was an incredibly exclusive gallery; it was in fact so exclusive that there was a rotating password to even enter the gallery.

McCree grimaced. "It's pretty okay… I think Ana just saw my work over at Seoul Club, which surprised me." 

Hanzo reeled at the mention of Seoul Club and made a sour face. "It surprises me that you'd want to work at Seoul…." Hanzo said under his breath. 

Seoul Club was the brainchild of Hana Song, a famous idol and musician, widely famous in South Korea and spreading fame the world over. Seoul Club was first and foremost an extremely extraordinary nightclub, but it also doubled as an elaborate charity event. The club hosted a continuous silent auctions on art that hung over it's walls and bars, and posted the highest bidders on screens scattered throughout the club, the profit Seoul would make then went to several charities. The ideal was fantastic, but the art was not so much….

Because of the nature of Hana's Ideal the club often prioritized quantity over quality and preferred to sell their work at a fast pace. It wasn't a place Hanzo would be caught out working at, and it was a notorious artist trap because the place was oftenly crushing for an artist's career. 

"What can I say?" McCree shrugged his brawny lean shoulders, dissmant of Hanzo's reaction. "I just like the place's vision, it's a great ideal and I can support that." McCree's voice made a gentle bend when he talked about Seoul Club. "Maybe it's something you would never do." His soft voice stiffening up into an under the table insult

McCree wasn't wrong Hanzo would never put his work in Seoul Club, and furthermore he had really struck over the notion that Hanzo was of the artistic aristocracy; those few who aim to be the elitist of the Art world. McCree fought that system, something he oftenly felt was oppressive and unfair to other artists, and when he looked at Hanzo and "The Lost Child" he could only see the things he fought against. 

"I reckon I should get to business here." McCree urged upon himself the importancy of his cleaning duties, and set off back to his cleaning cart. 

"Wait…" Hanzo turned to him. "I-" his throat closed on itself as there was a great deal more he had wished to ask. "I never got your name." He stammered for a moment. "I don't know exactly who I should be looking for in Queens." 

McCree turned around and cracked an actual grimace this time, he found the situation too ironic not to. 

"Jesse McCree, that's what I go by and I don't use a pseudo or nothing, just Jesse McCree." McCree folded his arms and waited for Hanzo to recipericate before they parted ways.

It's worth mentioning that artist to artist asking for names is a serious business. It has the implication that the questionnaire is about to begin examining the others work, about to discuss it with their collages, about to shine some form of exposure upon them: and it could make or break you. It is not a simple easy thing to do, to exchange names, but Hanzo had to know and McCree was ready to challenge that system of elitism, ready to see it recognize him as something culturally different.

"Hanzo Shimada: Tachwover, Brosse, Sevant, Witker's Gallow." A short list of places around town that hold his work.

"Manhattan boy." McCree said with a shortness as he turned around, a note that all of Hanzo's galleries where in Manhattan. "Alright then." 

And then the strange man walked away with the same magnetism that he had come by with; relaxed but with urgency, slow yet fast, somehow at a pace all his own and in a way his own style. In the departure Hanzo found himself alone, and his eyes drifted between "The Lost Child" and "Strength"; Marie was right that the two pieces made a striking contrast to the whole room. He couldn't help but wonder what was holding him back, because it always felt as if greatness were on the tip of his brush but was never his own to take it.

He stared into painting, then groaned, and then he stared blankly into the ceiling. 

One day the world would be his, but it would cost him. One day Hanzo would achieve the greatness he desired, but this isn't that story. This story is about the climb there, about learning, about growth, and about pain. 

And as Hanzo left Brosse in a daze, head full of fuzzy ideals and unanswerable questions, he entered a new chapter of his life: and started something no one could see coming. He would eventually devastate the world of art, Tachwover, Brosse, New York, Paris,  
Venice, Kyoto, all would eventually crumble to him: but today he would crawl to his posh studio and work quietly and as constantly as he could to numb himself to sleep


	2. Strength

Let's talk about Jesse McCree.

The McCree's were a strict family, and descended down a long chain of Orthodox Christianity. That said there was much love in their household and many family events were celebratory, and for the most part an extremely good family. The church organisation made a great stable for the whole family, who almost all had some hand in helping their selected church influences, and provided their values for generations.

The family unit McCree specifically grew up in was almost a stereotype of Christian values, his father a pastor, his mother a store clerk and church organist. When McCree was born great things were expected of him, and great things were what he delivered. He excelled at almost anything he touched, head choir boy, Academic accelerator, and phenomenal athlete, an undeniable golden child. 

When it came to art and understanding it he was a complete late comer, the first time he touched a paint brush he was a freshman in highschool. He had to take a creative elective and decided that a beginning art class was preferable to a creative writing class on his transcript, aptly due to the fact that by the time he graduated he would have enough free elective classes to take writing classes. 

McCree hated that class, he found art to be frustrating. He couldn't mix a color, and half the time he was unsure how to hold a paint brush: he had no ideal how much he would come to need it later. He never could decide what to paint, or what to do at all, and it was so infuriating for the boy who was good at everything to be bad at this.

The art branch had a special art assistant that year, Eien Serano, who had already had enough credits to graduate in Junior year, but elected to stay around as an art assistant for college credit. Eien was an amazing artist, and an amazing teacher, and without him being in that class that year and deciding not to graduate last year then this story would be very different. Eien helped McCree fall in love with art, and it was the biggest thing to happen to McCree's life ever, together they worked after school and before school. They worked in art clubs, and independently, and they worked all year up till they had to seperate and Eien went to college.

McCree didn't want to admit how much he was going to miss Eien, nor did he want to admit how much he had fallen in love with Eien. McCree didn't want to tell anyone, and no one knew, but when Eien left for college McCree sulked for weeks. It was the saddest McCree had ever been and because of the nature of his pain he had to hide it from everyone who mattered to him, expect one other.

Childhood friend Julian Le'Blanc knew, and even he was surprised. McCree was always handsome, smart, charismatic, and it never seemed like he was out of place anywhere. Women fawned over him, guys respected him, he just had this kind of energy that made everyone look up to him. Julian never once suspected that McCree was factually gay. 

McCree spent highschool in silence, hiding, as it became harder and harder for him to ignore himself. He just loved other men, and there was nothing he could do about it. He loved their dumb adorable faces, he liked their smells, he admired their bodies, he drempt of being with them. He had several crushes throughout school, and quickly it became a subject of rumor about why he never had a girlfriend. 

In the meantime McCree's passion for art became addiction, addicted to the feeling of escape and release. To be free was all he wanted and he quickly realized how much of a chain his family became to him, how he could never just be who he wanted in front of them; and then it happened. McCree was caught making out with Matthew Coleman, a very petite, very uncloseted, gay man. 

McCree didn't know why he kissed Matthew, maybe he just felt safe because he knew Matthew was gay? Maybe he just needed to express himself after years of repression, he could never be certain. Then the fighting started…. 

His father was the worst, refusing to talk to him for weeks. His mother refused to even come home at times because of the fighting, and then slowly McCree's loving family broke apart. 

His art addiction became an obsession, a craving to escape the unyielding abuse the church was giving him.

The church who once loved him, shunned him. His father who praised him now despised him, and his mother now abandoned him: this was the second month.

McCree struggled for now that he was outed why would he have to go back? Matthew and McCree became something of a topic and with Julian's support they worked together to keep things a secret, but McCree's father always seemed to know. The verbal fights became insults, then the insults became harassment, then harassment became assault, and the violence was awful.

From the outside view it was undeniable to see how the family changed. The neighborhood used to see happy loving times in the backyard, but now it was mangled and unkempt. They used to see McCree driving to school in his beater car he had bought with his own money, now broken and rusting in the driveway; his father broke it because McCree was going to see Matthew one night. Everything about that house everyone admired across the street was dying. 

And they said things like:

"What do you think's going on?"

"That's a shame."

"His wife never comes home anymore."

"They fight all the time."

Although despite the speculation no one ever asked McCree or his father about anything, they didn't talk about Jesse's limp, didn't talk about his arm sling, or the bruises, or the crying.

Inside that slowly dying beige paneling there was something hideous happening, words the likes of which I am uncomfortable repeating are said, and strange cruelties were exchanged in a fashion like candy on Halloween: fast. Then one day Jesse hit his father back and on that day there was a strange turn.

Jesse was strong, and tall, and young.

His father was aging, and unathletic.

And Jesse towered over his father and his father felt fear, and they exchanged an understanding. Jesse would not tolerate this treatment anymore, and if they continued there would be more than bruises happening now. The old man fell to the ground and stared up at the tall boy, and they locked eyes for an entity. Then McCree left and that was the last time he would see that house, that strange, twisted, decaying, house.

By the time McCree was seventeen he was living with Julian and his Aunt on 122 Cider street.

It was a strange time for McCree, everything was different, and it hurt so much. He lost a passion for art and turned into a depression that could not be resolved. He missed school, solely because he could not leave the coach he slept on, and the world simply lost its color.

Matthew and Jesse broke up: Matthew was never that important. McCree never even loved Matthew, not like he did Eien. It was more of a physical connection they shared, and being able to express himself freely was something McCree cherished; deep down he did not love that man. Now his life was fading and he simply felt no need to express himself anymore, which was why they broke up.

It all seemed like a bad dream to him, the grey walls, slow ceiling fan, bad smells. He felt so lost. Whenever someone spoke he could barely even hear them, and most days he just drifted in and out of his mind: which had become a hole of dreadful thoughts. 

Then one day Julian received a particular piece of good news. He had been accepted into his top pick school for a degree in architecture and design, and he wanted McCree to come with him to New York when the summer was over. McCree at the time almost refused because of how bleak the future he saw for himself as becoming, but he eventually agreed with some persistent nagging. 

When Jesse and Julian arrived in New York, the first few weeks were tough. Jesse didn't know what he should be doing, and Julian wasn't around to help him. He picked up a small time job to help keep up their nest egg, it was to be the first of many soon-coming jobs. He was a janitor at Julian's college which paid fairly well and working gave him something to do. 

They lived in a hostel in the lower Queens area, which was fairly dirty and a communal living space with eight other people and two bathrooms. The rent was cheap and the two men became so busy that they really only showed up to change and shower. Julian became a full time student and bartender at Club Seoul, McCree was reintroduced to art through Julian at Seoul. McCree started talking to some of the other people at the hostel, some of which were starting artists, or some of which were just strange people. That was how McCree found out about "The Pit."

The Pit, which ironically sounds like a strange fighting club, is actually a rental studio for general crafts. It was a pay by the hour, punch in, punch out, kind of place ran by an eccentric Jewish Man named Guertz. McCree started working there as an artist but Geurtz took a liking to him and started letting him have more studio time in exchange for cleaning services; this became McCree's night time job: he would eventually have three jobs total.

Desperate for money to rekindle his passions for art McCree took up a job at Club M.N., a strip club in Brooklyn. There he would work two nights a week and eventually quit his job at the college on Staten Island to be a custodian at Brosse, and then nightly he would scrub The Pit. He ended up working almost every night with a single day off about every two or three weeks, but somehow he never felt better. Everyday he woke up with passion and vigor and every night he made beautiful art, and life never seemed more beautiful to him than when he came to New York. 

While it might not have been the most dramatic on going Julian had actually become quite involved with a mysterious lady who knew nothing about him. The lady was a regular at Seoul and was frequently one of the higher bidders on some of the more obscure arts and artists. There was this wispy feature to the lady, she often floated into crowds and when she departed from them they laughed heartily this made Julian day dream of what her life was like. She seemed to create smiles wherever she went, a natural charm that worked for her in a way like a storm works in the ocean, it only got better the more people gathered around her; and he admired all these wondrous things like a sailor who spies a storm from far away.

"Julian?" McCree, the man leaned forward across the bar to leer at his friend.

McCree often frequented Club Seoul for many reasons, one of the best reasons was that Julian could often slip him a few free drinks. The atmosphere of the club was almost eltish but edged something a bit more casual, and definitely was not a suit and tie event. McCree fit in with his red flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, and a nice cut pair of white washed jeans: they wrapped nicely around his legs. Julian usually had to dress somewhat decently for the occasion, but over time the traditional black dress code just became his entire wardrobe so he never had to bother. 

"Yeah!" Julian cheered over the booming club house music.

"What da hell are ya space off for?" McCree glanced over his shoulder and into the distance behind him. Then he spotted Julian's longing crush easily. "Oh hell!" He groaned as he turned around and pulled a sip out of his old fashion drawn into a clear plastic cup. "You really oughta say something, you never know she could be into it." He tipped the cup at Julian and smirked. 

"Oh man… I don't kn-" Julian sees an empty glass on the glossy bar wood and comes swiftly to tend it. The exchange is quick and clean, the glass refilled with some red concoction and left to the drinker. Then he was back. "I don't know. She seems like she'd be into something more…" Julian gestured with his hands in a fashion that seemed as if to declare himself unsure.

"More rich?" McCree finished up for him.

"Yeah more rich." Julian said as he paced away preparing to return to heavier tending duties.

McCree made a stiff chuckle   
took his drink off the rail to travel over to the art. 

Seoul was unique for its artistic views and its strange cutting edge bidding strategy. The building was one large dance floor but towering over that was four high rises, and the art only increased in value the higher you rose; and at level four was a V.I.P. section where exclusive art was held. Each level had a bar or two on them so that every visitor could get a drink whenever. In the most common meetings and gatherings places: bars, bathrooms, the ends of stairways, plain view areas, there were touch screens that allowed people to view and bid on all the artwork throughout the buildings. Bidders had two options on how to bid either anonymously or with a legitimate name shown off an ID. Then at the end of the night a last bid call is made and the art is taken to their respective bidders.

McCree was staring at one of the bidding boards and he caught a particular strange thing. It had come up that one of his pieces had come up for bidding, he sipped his drink and looked at the number: one hundred and forty five dollars. The sip was more refreshing with a cool smirk and the satisfaction of praisal in the form of money. It wasn't very long before the number rose again and then it read one hundred and eighty dollars, quite a rise. His satisfaction quickly became confusion because not too long after the number rose again: two hundred even. 

It's time to talk about "Canyon Dust"

"Canyon Dust" was the name of McCree's art piece that was on the bidding screen: green text, small thumbnail. It was a small canvas piece he had completed in elaborate acrylics, the kind with thick body and heavy glossing effects created with a deliberate over coat of high glossy varnish. The effect was strange and with the various oranges and red tones it created a unique dusty space that seemed vast, however the piece was only a five by eight thin piece: not entirely worth the rising price, which was now causing a growing confusion. 

He sipped quietly at his drink and ascended to the upper levels. The view from the upper floors where nice since that were all open faced towards the sprawling dance floor, and then each level shifted slowly along the back and side walls; this way level one was only a flight of stairs upwards, but to reach level two you had to walk across level one and ascend more stairs, ECT. The whole layout was just a ploy to force people to walk across the whole gallery, which succeeded very well.

McCree was wandering through the first level aimlessly wondering whether or not he was going to pay for another drink or head over to the pit to start cleaning. He had made his footpath all the way to the next stairwell that would bring him to the floor above him, he had his head down in his drink while he sipped through the straw. When he looked up he made a discovery that not only shook him but also the discovered; descending the same stairwell was Hanzo Shimada. The two looked stiff about the situation. It was evident that Hanzo had clearly wanted to avoid him at that point, caught in a ploy to sneak around a distracted McCree: he had been foiled.

"Shimada?" McCree called to him as if in disbelief. "The Manhattan boy?" McCree began to approach Hanzo. "What in the whole world could bring you to Queens? You told me you'd never be here." McCree squinted and cast a stare at Hanzo that could be heard over the futuristic house music. "Were you just fibbin' the other day?" 

Hanzo stared into his drink and then over the stairwell guard and looked down into the dance floor… he wished for some escape, but now he was trapped. 

"Ahh…." Hanzo let his groan slip thoughtlessly.


	3. Hanzo's Day Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo goes on a small personal adventure.

I want to discuss Hanzo's day, because Hanzo is not going to discuss it for us.

Hanzo woke up about his usual time at eight a.m. to begin his work day. He lived in a sizable apartment studio in a very nice part of Brooklyn, one that came with a kitchenette and a spare room he used for sleeping. Despite being an artist Hanzo typically keep his walls barren and opted normally for plant decorations over wall ones. Hanzo's living room area was refitted to be a studio and lab, there were several white workstations, a balcony beyond the living room studio, and excellent expensive lighting. 

Hanzo cooked himself some scrambled eggs, fluffed with milk and whisked properly, and paired that with two strips of bacon and buttered toast. After the meal that he ate at one of the work tables he would promptly swipe his crumbs and scuttle the dishes into the sink, then he would brush his teeth and prepare to shower. Once he was ready the assembly he took on did not look much different than the day before, or the day before that. Actually recounting his days he had performed this same morning for almost six months consecutively, before this the only difference was he switched out english muffins for toast and served himself a small cup of orange juice. 

Hanzo had been living this quiet life, in his quiet apartment, making art quietly, for almost three years.

The sound of cracked eggs, toast popping, sizzles bacon, sweeping crumbles, light vacuuming, and shuffle of his wardrobe draws, were almost the exclusive sounds of his home. It was never dirty, never unorganized, matter of fact it was almost never different at all. 

It's worth mentioning that Hanzo wasn't always like this. There was a time when he loved to make art, and he loved his life, he had many friends and he used to laugh much more: but thats haven't been the same for awhile now. His family berated him, and his best friend, his own brother broke him, and ever since everyday has been bleaker, all the moments seem greyer: but these are stories for later. 

After he was done there he grabbed a art magazine out of his bed room night stand and went outside to call a taxi. He stood on the sidewalk and put his phone to his ear and not much later a yellow sedan appeared in front of him. He took the opportunity to tell the driver where to go but also to slip a pair of ear buds in and began to read his magazine.

"Greensberg, 1012 Herald Ave." He told the driver before cracking open his magazine.

'Gabriel Reyes art extraordinaire comes to Tachwover'

'Zenyatta deceives the world and reveals a garden of statues' 

'15th annual artist panel line up disclosed' 

Some of the headlines.

Hanzo only listened to full albums, he found that somehow the whole experience was the best way to escape from his normal situation. Today's listen was 'Zaba' from the artist Glass Animal: a personal favorite.

The cab pulled up to 1012 Herald Ave in Queens, in the Greensberg residence. The area was neat and organized mostly themed around a large park area which was well groomed into a rather unique experience. Highrises dotted along the streets surrounding the park, and general busy attitude of New York was only slightly diminished here: car's still honked, people clotted the street, but every great once in awhile one could see a bird or watch a roaming cloud. 

Hanzo's business at the 1012 address was communal or perhaps a little pretentious, he rented a small studio room from the address. The point of the rental was not to create more art, no he kept his best work at home, the point here was to network with the other artists; even though it wasn't something he enjoyed much….

He stepped into the elevator, shoulder to shoulder.

One ding up and one ding on the floor.

Then he was there, and he didn't want to be. We'll see why here in just a moment.

He walked through the clean space way, the decor was almost similar to that of an office space. There were several cubicles, some literal office rooms, and the area was particularly clean and organized. Everyone who worked there almost came exclusively for networking as well and it created a space that was more for socializing than for production. 

Hanzo walked into the office floor space, the soft smell of paint and medium was present in the air. From the elevator entrance he could already hear some of the conversations happening around the room, he could also hear some light humming, soft brushstrokes, and swirling water. He knew fairly quickly where he was about to go, because it was the same place he always went to first whenever he came to the floor: the "Water cooler".

They called it the water cooler but it wasn't a water fountain or even one of those massive water dispensing machines. The "Water Cooler" was actually a very small area on the back wall by the bathrooms and it was a long stretching counter top that contained a coffee maker, a microwave, and a sink: along with ironically an actual water dispenser. Everyone called it the water cooler though, because it was the most common social grounds on the whole floor. 

Hanzo approached, with his art magazine tucked under his arm, his mind ready for that black rich coffee: although he was always unsure why but cheap coffee tasted better here than anywhere. 

Clink, a coffee mug.

Gentle sound of pouring liquid.

Smells luke warm coffee.

The crowd at the water cooler approached.

"Hey Shimada, did you hear about Gabriel's new piece at Tachwover?" Hanzo was barely the first sip into his drink, when Derek Arthur Malvic said this.

"Actually no." He said softly, which was true he only knew that it replaced his own.

"Oh I saw it last night before they closed up, think it was in your spot though." Derek pressed; Derek barely cut the artist elitism block, but he often tried, it wasnt always commendable that he did though. 

"It was for sure, because I saw that one thing… What was it? Child in Blue? Something like that-" Erin Ockyzski began but it didnt last long before she was corrected by Hanzo.

"'Lost Child'" He corrected her with a slight coldness.

"Yeah that!" She exclaimed as if stumbling over some new revelation. "I came in and Moreau was all like 'come look at this, you wont believe it'." She said with a soft impression of Moreau's accent and hand gestures. "And well it was there, actually looks really nice next to that other thing… big...red thing?"

"Oh you're talking about "Strength", from that one guy...uh, what's his name… he's new and stuff right?" Derek pressed on her.

"Yeah, he's kind of green." Hanzo sipped at his coffee mug, it was a grey mug. It spelled out 'Rad Dad' in dim gold letters: it made him laugh. "His name's Jesse McCree." Hanzo paused and thought about it. "Actually do you guys know anything about him?"

"Him no he's not really on my radar, yanno…. Hey! You have the new issue too!" Derek pointed at the folded magazine. "Didja finish it already? There was an interesting bit with Reyes actually being on the panel for art discussion with Zenyatta." Derek sipped his coffee. "I wish I could make it on the panel, yanno." Derek shrugged. "Maybe I could have that kind of talent someday." 

"That's a long maybe." Erin cut through, and then groaned in longingness. "Those guys are just so talented." 

Hanzo was having a rough time with this whole conversation, and inside his headache was insulting the two artists. How could they truly think that Reyes' work was in any way comparable to Zenyatta? It was outrageous! He tried to hold his insults and commentary to himself but it was with such restraint that he lip twitched into a snarl, but he covered it with his mug. 

"I've got some work to finish up." He said with a monotone.

"Oh yeah, I've really been admiring what you put out there." Derek chuckled lightly and with a bit of nervousness. "I sort of peaked in your cubicle and saw your new thing. Gotta tell you I'm really excited to see it." 

"Me too actually I enjoyed its motion, but yeah we should let you go." Erin chimed in.

Hanzo left their company with relief but by the time he was at his cubicle he realized he was distracted to begin work. He sat in the chair and still tried of course, but after the first hour it just did not become him. 

He sighed and then overcome with whirling thoughts he stared into the ceiling over him: the kind with those strange holes and made of foam, cheap office stuff. Reyes was coming to New York, coming to the annual Tachwover art panel, Reyes seemed to be taking over everything Hanzo wanted. It made him angry, but also sad, and deep down it made him wonder if he was ever really good enough.

He wanted to lay on the ground, it was 11pm and he was done alright. He wanted to sleep, but there is a thing artists often have and things they often do. Artists are stubborn creatures who's craft is to manipulate inanimate objects, in essence to just disrupt what was never disrupted, in the process they acquire certain skills. They learn things like patience, and emotion, they learn how to endure themselves through pointless tasks and how to drive themselves with strange passion; and right now defeat was not something on Hanzo's mind, no he would something done.

He got out of his chair, cleaned up his cubicle and then headed for outside. He put his phone to his ear and received, and then he would head to lower Queens and search for McCree's strange pieces. He put his foot to the sidewalk and pressed against strangers in forgien area, walked in the first gallery he could find and asked for McCree.

He didn't find anything, but it was foolish of him to go without a plan, he only knew he couldn't stay in that office anymore and he wouldn't go back home. He took his phone from his pocket and began a deep search on McCree, which didn't turn up much. He found that the aspiring artist had an Instagram account weirdly, but it looked very inactive and wasn't much there. It was time to do some dirty work here.

Hanzo began calling every gallery within walking distance and asked if they had anything by a Jesse McCree. The turn up was surprising and some of the phone operators even seemed excited that someone was asking about McCree. And that is how Hanzo spent most of his day from 11:45 a.m. he walked several miles between galleries and traveling by taxi all to examine some of what this McCree could do.

He had to say he was impressed. 

He spent a good deal of time talking to curators about Jesse and his art theology. His use of vibrant color, and his strange statues. He was differently a mixed media artist, often using sand, and glass, metal, and canvas. He created pieces that struck with a virile that was so uncommon it demanded attention; alot of people compared it to Gabriel Reyes' early work and Hanzo did not mind that one bit. He thought it that it reminded him of the better part of Gabriel's career.

The hours wore on, and the conversations kept coming, no one seemed to have a bad thing to say about McCree. He seemed loved in every gallery, a hero to some of the lower end ones, some type of art crusader, and Hanzo found admiration for him. 

This was how that at 9:58p.m. Hanzo found himself standing out of Seoul Club on this chilly Friday night, because it was the last place he wanted to attend before he went home. 

He could hear the music from outside the building, and see the youthful people clustering around him, as they all stood in behind a purple velvet rope that took them into the alleyway behind the building. This was definitly not his favorite place to be, but he was excited when he got in at 10:27 p.m. and examine some more of what was becoming a favorite of his own. This exploration just happened to be at the same time Jesse's only free day off was and was the cause of their strange run in. 

Which is currently happening, and I feel like we should get back to quickly.


End file.
